


Before the Norns

by Zaniida



Series: Creepyfest 2019 [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Betrayal, Bigotry & Prejudice, Brotherhood, Community: norsekink, Creepyfest, Fantastic Racism, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Magically Binding Oaths, Manipulation, No-Win Scenario, Odin's A+ Parenting, Ostracism, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-02 04:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: “So… beyond that moment of choice, even the Sisters can’t see the future they weave?”“Oh, they can see many possible futures, all the different choices you might make.  Different ways that the pattern adjusts to flow around that change.  It’s just that, until you have chosen, they don’t know which pattern will fill the space.”In which Thor’s coronation comes with a decision he might not be ready to make.  (From an old Norsekink prompt.)P.S. Having trouble with the posting dating.  It should be October 1st (which is the date I literally just hit Post), but it's showing the date I started saving the draft way back in September, and if I correct it, the fic disappears!  (No, this isn't another weird Creepyfest meta shenanigan.  Not by me, anyway.)  And if it has the draft date (which isn't when I Published it, obviously), it's sorted under half my September fics.  Yargh.  I'm gonna see if AO3 help has solutions.





	1. One Final Ordeal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ejmam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejmam/gifts), [Signamino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signamino/gifts), [Achika_pl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achika_pl/gifts), [CaricatureOfAWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaricatureOfAWitch/gifts), [AdrianaBanner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrianaBanner/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Red as Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/519509) by (anonymous). 
  * Inspired by [Stained Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/812946) by [KingWatney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingWatney/pseuds/KingWatney). 
  * Inspired by [Rotten At the Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/773087) by [Coneycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coneycat/pseuds/Coneycat). 
  * Inspired by [No Good Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276049) by [Mythwine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythwine/pseuds/Mythwine). 
  * Inspired by [One Step Away](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759003) by [JaggedCliffs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaggedCliffs/pseuds/JaggedCliffs). 
  * Inspired by [Promises, Promises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980458) by [EndlessStairway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessStairway/pseuds/EndlessStairway). 
  * Inspired by [What you are in the dark (is beautiful)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624467) by [PeaceHeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaceHeather/pseuds/PeaceHeather). 

> My friends, fans, and readers, it is time to begin the celebration of Creepyfest! As with the past two years, October is a time to take off all the stops and see where the madness takes us.
> 
> My general bent is toward positive endings (at least in any fic of substantial length). I like the good guys to get good endings, the bad guys to get bad endings or redemption arcs, and nobody to get away with just being nasty to people who don't deserve it.
> 
> But for Creepyfest, there is no guarantee that anyone walks away unscathed. And there might indeed be character deaths! There might be blood and gore, tortures both physical and psychological, horrors beyond imagining!
> 
> (I will try to be careful with my End Note chapter warnings. If I miss anything major, let me know so I can fix it ASAP.)
> 
> So let's kick off Creepyfest with a scenario that at least four other authors have tackled, and see where my version takes us. Buckle up (and bring tissues)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The guests in his dreams have been dark and terrible beyond measure, impossibly huge, their faces hidden in shadow. Threads looped heavily about their arms. Never speaking a word, simply watching him, waiting to see what he’ll do._
> 
> _Thor’s eyes meet Loki’s, neither as confident as they had been mere hours before. Whatever their father meant to do, they’d both thought they’d be ready for it, but now…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'know, I'd thought this piece was done, and then I ran it by a small pack of impromptu beta readers, who pointed out various problems with it.
> 
> And then I thought it was done, and then I ran it past a good friend, who pointed out more problems.
> 
> And then I thought for _sure_ it was done, and got it set up as a draft, ready to post on the first of October here. But then I was researching archetypes again, and realized that hey, this is strikingly close to a specific archetypal pattern. At which point I ran back through my draft for several passes, tightening up the archetypal pattern and adding in appropriate symbolism. And it really fleshed out what I'd thought was pretty good before.
> 
> This is one of the reasons that I can never trust my head when it says a piece is ready to go. Why being proficient in the language and the mechanics doesn't bypass the need for a fresh set of eyes.
> 
> I would like to lay all my thanks at the feet of my beta reader, HeartsOfStone, and my dear friend, MulaSaWala, for all the work they have done for me throughout the past couple of years. I truly do appreciate you two, and find your contribution invaluable.

As Thor’s coronation draws ever closer—no longer centuries away, nor even decades, but years and then months, closing in on mere days—his dreams have been of nothing but that final hour, the moments before he claims his destiny.

And he’s noticed unexpected guests.

Three of them, dark and terrible beyond measure, impossibly huge, their faces hidden in shadow. Threads looped heavily about their arms. Never speaking a word, simply watching him, waiting to see what he’ll do.

For months now, he’d been dreaming of the tests his father might require of him, the vows he might be called upon to make. Of fighting off hordes of monsters—bilgesnipes and giants and dragons—and standing before the throne, soaked in blood, finally proving himself worthy of his place. He’d dreamed of how his friends might react as he kneels before his father and rises with his blessing, the new King of Asgard, invested with unlimited power and authority.

But now, under the gaze of the fate-weavers, he’s begun to falter. In the dreams, he’s nervous, fumbling, uncertain. The monsters sink into shadow, chaotic forms he can't begin to fight. The great feasts rot on the tables, and the crowd grows restless, beginning to murmur against him. He tries some showy tricks with Mjolnir, only to watch her slip through his fingers and fall into a hole so deep that he can’t even call her back again. The murmurs turn to angry muttering, the court looking on him with nothing but hate in their eyes.

In the worst dreams, he’s cast aside as unfit, a failure of the highest order; his father’s implacable eye stares down at him until he slinks out of the palace and away from Asgard, out of the sight of Odin's twin ravens, retreating (and when has he ever retreated from anything?) until the darkness of the lost places consumes him.

And even there, the eyes of the fate-weavers are upon him.

More than a few times, he’s woken in a cold sweat, and stoked the fire and sat up until daybreak, hugging his knees and wishing he were young enough to run across the hall to Loki’s bed, as Loki used to run to his.

(Back when his dreams were far more pleasant, he’d be woken by Loki crawling into his bed, nightmares still fresh in his trembling lips and teary eyes.

Thor would hold him close and reassure him that the Jotnar couldn’t leave their homeworld, and certainly couldn’t break through Asgard’s defenses to get to the palace itself. Not past the palace guards. Not past _Father_. Besides, Thor would slay any number of Jotnar to keep Loki safe.

_You’d really do that for me, Thor?_

_Of course! You’ll always be safe if you stick with me_.

Assured of Thor’s love and protection, Loki would fall asleep in his brother’s arms.)

When Thor finally breaks, and runs to his brother—not over the nightmares _precisely_, but for a consult about the Norns’ presence—Loki simply laughs.

“Come now,” he says, busily grinding a fresh set of reagents, “you can’t be _surprised_. You’re to be the next Allfather; of course they’d take an interest in your life.”

“I know _that_,” Thor huffs, sinking down into a chair by Loki’s workbench and staring crossly at the flames dancing in the hearth. The thick air in here is giving him a headache, just to match his mood.

It would be hard _not_ to know that the Sisters have invested their best threads in the ‘Golden Prince of Asgard’. Every possible blessing has been bestowed upon him, from physical health to social acclaim. The friends he’s attracted are the most loyal anyone could ask for, with great courage and fighting prowess as well. His mother is by far the most nurturing, along with being a skilled seer and shield-maiden; his father is the most powerful, the most wise.

And his brother by far the most intriguing.

There are many in the court who despise Loki; both boys are well aware of this. With neither the sheer physical might nor the straightforward mindset of his peers, Loki falls far short of the Aesir ideal. More agile than strong, he’s never been good at any warrior’s weapon; he fights with daggers, the choice of a woman, or perhaps a merchant, not a warrior of Asgard.

Yet Loki has proven just how deadly a small blade can be. When _he_ wields them, he strikes with vicious precision, and those who underestimate him don’t live to regret their mistake. Overcoming his vulnerabilities, Loki has risen above his physical limitations to become one of the deadliest fighters in Thor’s little band.

That might have granted him some honor—but he also uses _seidhr_, the mystical arts that no man save Odin Allfather would deign to take part in.

Thor had been there as Loki agonized over the decision—back when Loki was young enough to seek _his_ counsel, instead of the other way around. At the time, the thought of Loki being deadly in combat had been almost laughable. And if he could not wield a weapon in Asgard’s defense, how else could he help defend the Realm? So, rather than stay useless, Loki had chosen to shoulder that burden, harnessing his seidhr and accepting the lifelong shame of being accounted _ergi_.

For such great courage and self-sacrifice, Thor has ever been proud of his brother. And yes, there are times when Thor finds him _infuriating_, but is that not the way of brothers? Loki is clever, charming, courageous, insightful—yes, and eccentric, but Thor has grown to appreciate having access to a viewpoint so distinct from the Asgardian norm. Loki has long been the whetstone against which Thor sharpens his own mind.

Which is, of course, why he often seeks his counsel.

“What I can’t figure out is, why show themselves to me?”

Loki shrugs. “It’s a portent.”

“Of course it’s important. They wouldn’t—”

“No, no, not _im_portant.” Loki frowns, and taps his chin. “Although I suppose that would be true as well. A _portent_, an omen. A sign of some crucial decision that could drastically shift the weaving.” He picks at a stray thread from his sleeve. “They’re waiting to see what happens, as much as we are.”

Thor has to mull that one over for a while.

“I thought,” he begins, slowly, “that the Sisters were the ones who wove our fate. How could they not know what is to come?”

“Because the future isn’t that simple.” Compressing his lips, Loki starts pacing. “Most of our lives run in highly predictable patterns, in circles and cycles. A boy is born to a poor farmer, grows up a poor farmer, marries a girl in the same village and carries on in his father’s footsteps. Maybe he does a little better, a little worse, maybe the earth's really fertile or he’s a little more creative with his sowing, but the choices that he makes along the way are all but incidental to the overall design.

“Lives like ours may be even _more_ predictable: From the moment you were born, the entire kingdom has known your destiny. Perhaps you’ll be a good king or a bad king or a completely forgettable king, maybe they’ll curse your name long after you’re gone, but you have always been _meant_ to be king. That’s the future that the Sisters have woven for you, deep down into your very nature, even your _desire_ to be king.

“But, in every life, there are moments where the pattern has the possibility to shift one way or another. And that’s the moment of true choice.”

Thor fidgets, hands clasping as if missing a weapon he could swing. Existential pondering has always been Loki’s forte, far more than his, but… he did come here hoping to understand what the Norns wanted from him. “So… beyond that moment of choice, even the Sisters can’t see the future they weave?”

“Oh, they can see many possible futures, all the different choices you might make. Different ways that the pattern adjusts to flow around that change. It’s just that, until you _have_ chosen, they don’t know which pattern will fill the space.

Casually, Loki starts hunting through boxes and jars, comparing reagents and setting some few aside. “Some people,” he muses, “will face choices that affect a handful of lives. The choice of a profession, a wife or husband, a place to live. The choice to hold to your principles or break them for personal gain. The choice to risk danger to help someone, or to stay back and protect yourself; to return harm for harm, or to forgive and move on. Others face choices that affect whole regions, change the long-term destiny of an entire clan.”

“And as King…”

Loki turns to face him again, mouth pursed for a moment. “You’ll face choices that affect the entire Realm. Suppose you have the option to, I don’t know, avert a war. Many aspects of your life add up to who you are in that moment, and how likely you are to choose war over peace, what you’d be willing to sacrifice, but the choice is still up to you. And the destiny of the Nine Realms could hinge upon the choice you make in that moment.”

Thor slumps, elbows on his knees. “No pressure, then.”

The fondness in Loki’s chuckle makes Thor relax, just a little; he laughs along, but shakily.

Then Loki’s expression turns serious. “Truly, brother,” he says, “I can offer you no great insight. Some pivotal decision lies before you, a turning point upon which rests your own future and, quite possibly, the future of the Realms as well. The Sisters’ appearance suggests that without this awareness, you might make a decision too hastily, without considering all the factors at play.”

“_Stop and think_,” Thor muses, “as you’ve so often told me.”

“Indeed,” Loki says, cocking an eyebrow. “You know you can’t solve every problem by hitting it with a hammer.”

“Well,” Thor says, getting to his feet, “what comes, will come, and I shall meet it with courage.” He steps toward Loki, who startles, briefly, before Thor’s hand on his neck draws forth his characteristic smirk, softened by affection. “But I can’t imagine it being more than I can handle… not so long as I have your wisdom to guide me.”

Loki’s smirk broadens to a rare full smile, complete with an unconscious little tilt of his head. “Whatever help I can offer is yours for the asking. You have my faith, brother, and all my love; never doubt that. And whatever the Norns have woven for our lives, I dare to hope that my final breath will be drawn at your side.”

Surprised at Loki’s invocation, Thor recalls the first time he’d sworn by the Norns, and been soundly reprimanded by Huntmaster Tyr—who thereafter ensured that he kept his rash vow, for a vow made in their name must never be broken, lest it bring calamity upon the one who broke it and all around him. Even referencing their name calls their attention, which should not be drawn for any light or fleeting reason—hence the use of alternatives: sisters, weavers, the kindly ones, the hooded ladies.

And Loki, well versed in his studies, knows this better than most. Thor feels a swell of affection at the thought that Loki values their brotherhood enough to gently beseech the Norns for a blessing upon it.

Sudden pain shoots through his fingers. “Ow!” he cries, jerking back from Loki with a hiss.

“Ah, sorry!” Loki says with a wince. “That’s probably the acid crystals.”

Thor barely resists the instinct to suck on the pain. “_Acid?!_ ”

“_Kinda_ made a little explosion earlier. Got all over my clothes, but I’ve been too busy to change. I’m hoping to make something memorable for your—um, you’d best wash that off before it eats through any more of your skin. Sorry!” he adds again, grimacing.

“You are a menace!” Thor roars over his shoulder, storming out of the room.

“If it helps,” Loki’s voice carries after him, “my clothes are in tatters! I’ve just been hiding most of it with a glamour. You should see my hair!”

Thor replies with wordless rage as he stomps off toward the healers, his fingertips still shooting fiery pains.

That night, Thor dreams of childhood adventures: the two brothers running through the palace, fighting off frost giants with their wooden swords, and inevitably making their way to the kitchens to sneak hot meat pies from the ovens before the chefs could catch them.

When Thor notices the Norns again, he bows low, and respectfully offers each of them a savory treat.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Thor’s coronation is the biggest event in centuries; representatives from every corner of the Realm are in attendance, along with rulers from most of the other Realms. Not from Svartalfheim (the barren world) or Jotunheim (the ostracized), of course, nor from Midgard (still a child compared to the rest), but even Niflheim, land of the dead, is represented among the honored guests. They’re arrayed in a giant circle around the edges of the throne room, several layers deep, held back by a ring of fire pits that flicker in the relative darkness. The air is heavy with incense.

Within the circle are key members of the Einherjar, the only ones besides Odin allowed to bear weapons in the throne room. Also a group of seidhkona in their most formal robes, bowls in their hands and bags of reagents hung from their belts. There’s Tyr, the one-handed huntmaster, who presides over matters of high court and public oaths. And, of course, the royal family: Loki to the side, Thor at the center—at the foot of the stairs that lead to the throne, where Odin sits with Gungnir in hand.

Oddly enough, Frigga doesn’t appear to be in the room. Thor notes this, but his attention is mostly elsewhere.

Mjolnir lies at Odin’s feet, a new layer of enchantment on her. She will be returned to Thor once he has proven himself before the Allfather—before all of Asgard. Thor’s armor, too, has been stripped from him; he stands before the court in finery that he counts as little more than rags, for all the good it would stand him in battle.

And now, unexpectedly, Odin turns his attention from Thor to Loki.

“Come kneel before me,” he intones—all authority, no trace of the loving father they see outside the throne room.

Though clearly startled, Loki does not hesitate to obey. _Your father does nothing without a purpose_, their mother has told them often through the years, and that must be even more true during a ceremony like this. The knowledge doesn’t quiet Thor’s sudden anxiety; he didn’t realize that Loki would have any part in the ceremony.

And then Odin addresses the Einherjar. “Shackle him.”

The four guards nearest the throne have chains and shackles at the ready. They, too, do not hesitate to follow the order; they were clearly prepared for it.

Loki was—just as clearly—_not_ prepared, and his expression says he’s trying to work out what the hell is going on. But he does not fight it, even when they fit him with an iron muzzle.

Arms and legs bound tight, Loki keeps his eyes on his father, as if he could find some reassurance in the impassive gaze of the Allfather on his throne.

“Seidhkona,” Odin says, “bind his seidhr.”

At this, Loki looks alarmed. The seidhkona bring forth bowls of reagents, and one woman traces runes on Loki’s forehead and cheeks and on the back of his hands. Loki closes his eyes and trembles, but still doesn’t move. When they activate the runes, sealing away his powers, he bears the pain stoically—likely under the same impression as Thor, that removing their key powers (Loki’s seidhr and Mjolnir’s strength) is somehow necessary for the ceremony.

When the seidhkona retreat, Loki is hunched over, breathing harshly.

After a moment, Odin rises, Gungnir in hand and a raven on each shoulder, and descends the steps to stand before his younger son, looking him over without expression.

“Thor,” he says, “my son and heir… come stand beside me.”

Resisting the urge to demand explanations, Thor obeys, and then they’re both looking at Loki in chains. And for all that Thor has been looking forward to his coronation, he’d trade it all in right now for the right to tear those chains to pieces with his bare hands.

_You might make a decision too hastily, without considering all the factors at play_.

Thor stays silent.

Then Odin turns to face him.

“Thor Odinson,” Odin intones, raising his voice so that no one could miss it. “My heir… my firstborn. For nearly four thousand years, I have defended Asgard, and the lives of the innocent across the Nine Realms. The day has come to pass that duty along to a new King. But the burden of the Allfather is never a light one. Are you prepared to bear it?”

_Stop and think_, Loki’s voice says in his head, _as I’ve so often told you_. But he can’t see where the catch might be.

“I am,” he says.

Odin motions to Tyr, who steps forward and squares himself with Thor.

“Tonight, we call forth the attention of the Norns,” Tyr intones. “Urdhr. Verdhandi. Skuld. It is time for Thor, trueson of Odin, to swear himself to uphold the good of Asgard.”

Then Tyr looks him straight in the eyes. “Thor, son of Odin,” he says, “before these witnesses and before the Norns, do you swear to guard the Nine Realms against all threats, whether from without or within?”

Thor considers the wording, but, again, cannot see anything wrong with it. “Before the Norns, I swear,” he says.

“Thor, son of Odin, do you swear to preserve the peace, no matter the cost to yourself?”

That one’s easier; for all his besetting arrogance, he’s never been a _selfish_ boy. He’s known that the throne will require self-sacrifice. “Before the Norns, I swear.”

“Thor, son of Odin,” Tyr says a third time, “do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to uphold the good of the Realms?”

Selfish ambition. The desire to further his own cause, his own desires, in a way that could harm the Realms. From this day forward, he needs to put the Realms above every other consideration.

“Before the Norns, I swear.”

A hand on his shoulder startles him, and Thor turns to see Odin smiling grimly at him. “Then pass this one last test, my son, and take your rightful place as ruler of these lands.”

He pulls a black dagger from a sheath Thor hadn’t noticed, and presents it, hilt-first, to Thor.

It’s such a small blade. Delicately decorated with tiny circles and interwoven threads. Pretty to look at, but Thor’s used to _real_ weapons—sword, axe, hammer—not this child’s plaything. Even Mjolnir, who hides most of her weight from those who can lift her, feels heftier than this.

But the dagger is, of course, ceremonial, and ceremonies require _precision_ rather than _power_.

Turning to face the court, Odin proclaims, “Before you all, before the Norns who weave our lives, my son has sworn to preserve the peace, to uphold the good of the Realm and guard it against all threats, both without and within. Just as I swore, when I ascended the throne. And I have kept my oath, even at tremendous loss, even when it pains me _greatly_ to do so. For I must always put the good of the Realm before my own selfish desires, and even my own heart.

“During my father’s reign, the greatest threat we faced, which would have destroyed the Realms entirely, was the Svartalfar—the dark elves—under Malekith. My father waged war against them, and destroyed them utterly, leaving their world barren, for they would have destroyed us all had he stayed his hand.

“During my reign,” Odin continues, “the greatest threat we have faced was the Jotnar—the frost giants—under Laufey. They invaded Midgard, and slaughtered countless innocent people before our armies drove them back. I did not hesitate to seize the heart of their power, that they might never again leave their frozen world—for their hearts are as frigid and loveless as the Realm that spawned them.”

The crowd might be too young to recall the time of the dark elves’ threat, but they rouse at the mention of the frost giants, and spit oaths at the name of Laufey, the monsters’ king. The war was barely over a thousand years ago; any who could not recall it would be accounted still a youngling, like Loki, not even old enough to join the court. Thor, not even five hundred at the time, still recalls the oppressive fear that had saturated the Realm while the warriors were offworld. Still recalls his mother’s prayers for his father’s safety—because Father, the strongest warrior in all Asgard, would be leading the charge.

Nearly everyone in the room has lost something to the war—those whose loved ones returned alive might still have known someone who lost an arm, or, like Odin, an eye. If there are any in Asgard who might think more generously of the Jotnar, they hold their peace; the general sentiment of the crowd is a step away from _murderous_.

Odin strikes Gungnir’s butt against the floor, and the crowd goes silent as the sound reverberates throughout the throne room.

“My son, as well, will stand between Asgard and its enemies. As he will demonstrate for you here, before this very court.”

Thor’s eyes meet Loki’s, neither as confident as they had been mere hours before. Whatever their father meant to do, they’d both thought they’d be ready for it, but now…

“Loki.” Turning again, Odin regards Loki with seeming indifference. “Since the day you joined this house,” he says, “my seidhr has been upon you. Today, I remove it, and reveal you as you truly are.”

Thor does not miss Loki’s brief confusion—before the pale color of his skin crumbles away, leaving behind deep blue, covered in raised lines and whorls, as his eyes turn red as blood.

_Thor_  
  
_can’t_  
  
_breathe_.

The court erupts into chaos.

Loki’s head jerks to the side, his eyes wide as he takes in the court’s alarm. Then he looks at Odin, at the horror on Thor’s face—and then, finally, down at his own hands, within the shackles.

Thor catches the moment when he realizes what he looks like—what he _is_, for surely this is no mere illusion—and Loki’s breath speeds to a panic. Yet, even in his terror, Loki looks to his father for support, for reassurance, still _trusting_.

“You have been raised together,” Odin says, “played together, fought at each other’s side—for a thousand years and more, you have known Loki as your brother. Yet he is not the son of Frigga, nor the son of Odin.”

Thor cannot tear his eyes away from Loki. The horror on his brother’s face could only be matched by the horror on his own.

“At the close of the war, I found him,” Odin continues. “Newborn. A Jotun runt—but it is the smallest of the Jotnar who possess the greatest talent for seidhr. And you have all seen how well he took to such a womanly art! In their hands, he would have been a weapon beyond measure—perhaps, in time, able to breach the walls between Jotunheim and Yggdrasil itself, and from there to bring the threat of frost giants back to the other Realms.

“Knowing this risk, perhaps I should have killed him. Instead, I decided to give him a chance. I brought him here, to be raised as though Aesir, though he could never share more than the surface appearance of his betters. In strength and stamina, in zeal, in combat skills, even with his most passionate efforts he has come up short again and again. And in temperament, you all have known his tricks, his pranks, his way of sneaking around problems instead of facing them head-on like any _true_ warrior of Asgard. Raised alongside the crown prince, he was given the best possible chance to rise above his nature, and yet… this is, after all, the best that he can become.”

Tears are sliding down Loki’s cheeks, only to freeze before they can fall. Odin takes a deep breath, and sighs it out again.

“My son,” he says—to Thor, though he looks at Loki—“in truth, Loki is… the son, and heir… of _Laufey_.”

The murmurs swell to fury again, _outrage_ that the spectre of their most hated enemy could raise its head once more in the heart of Asgard.

Gungnir strikes the ground again, and the murmurs quickly fade.

“Here, then, is an enemy of Asgard,” Odin says, heedless of Loki’s stricken face. “And no small threat. His seidhr itself could be wielded against a small army in any number of ways—shielding the frost giants from the naked eye, dazzling or distracting our warriors so they could not see the threat. Using astral sight to mark where our battalions lay, or attacking us directly with the very ice across which we marched. I have seen such tactics from the frost giants before, and their seidhkona were nowhere near as skilled or as powerful as Loki has become.

“Even were I to seal his seidhr for good, he has been raised among our warriors; he knows our combat style, our tactics, from the inside out. He has roamed through every corner of the palace, even to the chamber of our seidhkona, to our healers’ rooms, and to the weapons vault. He has studied the Bifrost, and might, one day, find a way to duplicate its power.

“So we cannot return him to Jotunheim,” Odin concludes, “and he has shown, too clearly, that he has no place among the Aesir. This, then, is your chance to prove that you will defend the Realm from enemies and monsters, that you value your responsibilities above even your own feelings. Prove your loyalty to Asgard, my son. Kill the Jotun runt and take your rightful place on this throne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** A long discussion of fate and destiny, how it plays out in this worldbuild. (If you catch it, there's also a meta note to the idea.) Discussion of the consequences of breaking sacred vows.
> 
> Nightmares, though not terribly long or detailed.
> 
> You know that racist mindset of "we are naturally, biologically, better than _that_ group could ever hope to be -- it's not their fault exactly, they're just a lesser race"? That's here in _spades_, and it might be argued to have some basis in the reality of this worldbuild, though it's being used as justification for horrible, horrible things (how else is that mindset _ever_ put to use?).
> 
> Court-ordered bondage and painful binding of magic. Helplessness, public humiliation, broken trust.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This follows a prompt given on [Norsekink](https://norsekink.livejournal.com/11337.html?thread=27477833#t27477833) back in March of 2013. In short, Odin uses Thor's coronation to reveal Loki's true nature and bid Thor kill his brother. With Thor realizing that if he refuses, Odin will simply have Loki executed (or let the crowd tear him apart).
> 
> At least four authors have tackled this prompt before me. The endings are… kinda depressing. But for those of you who'd like a rundown:
> 
> * * *
> 
> **SPOILERS AHEAD**
> 
> **SPOILERS AHEAD**   

> 
> **SPOILERS AHEAD**
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Red as Blood](https://norsekink.livejournal.com/11337.html?thread=27572553#t27572553) (anonymous fill, 2013): Odin turns out to have an even more convoluted plan, which pulls Thor along by the nose because every other choice is worse. Asgard does not fare well. Thor's friends are actually pretty positive characters, though, given the circumstances.
> 
> [Stained Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/812946) (KingWatney, 2013): Thor doesn't seem to have a choice, so he does as he is bid. As the prompt requested, it's incredibly gory, and not over fast. The experience drives Thor mad; again, Asgard does not fare well. (On the up side, Thor's friends get delightfully twisted endings, which serves them right for being dicks.)
> 
> [Rotten at the Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/773087/chapters/1451522) (Coneycat, 2013): After trying to follow orders, Thor realizes he can't go through with it, and escapes with Loki. Though bittersweet, it's the most positive ending out of all four fills.
> 
> [No Good Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2276049) (Mythwine, 2014): Y'know how the other versions make Odin the villain, and most of the other characters are within canon norm (whether racist dicks or loyal friends)? This is a full-on Darkverse, and Thor's attempt to escape with Loki does not end well.
> 
> As far as my version? The only thing you can be sure of is that it's going to explore some aspect of the situation that the previous four did not explore. So we'll see how it goes!


	2. Witnesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor looks at the prisoner and tries to see anything other than his brother. To see a monster, a beast, rightfully bound before the throne.
> 
> Maybe letting him die would be a mercy, compared to letting him live with a truth this abhorrent.
> 
> The dagger in Thor’s hand is impossibly small for the task he has been given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so much for having several chapter updates this month; I don't know why I think I can accomplish so much more than I actually do. Still, the cliffhanger's up by Halloween, so that's something, right?
> 
> _Sigh_.

The Jotnar—frost giants—are well known to be little more than savage beasts, bent on conquest, incapable of courage or compassion. Repulsive creatures, the most reviled monsters in all the Nine Realms. Ever since Odin drove them back from their invasion of Midgard, it has been forbidden to travel to their homeworld—to Jotunheim—so only the warriors who fought in that war have ever seen the monsters face to face.

Here and now, at their first glimpse of the Jotun in their midst, the faces of the court show various mixtures of disgust, contempt, revulsion, hate, and rage.

Aimed at Loki. Until today, a prince of Asgard, however odd. Until today, Thor’s brother.

Shackled and chained and muzzled, on his knees between the guards, his seidhr locked away. Desperate and horrified. Utterly helpless, and slated to die.

By Thor’s hand.

The dagger in Thor’s hand is impossibly small for the task he has been given.

Scanning the crowd again, Thor notes that Sif looks disgusted, even a little outraged, while his other friends wear expressions far less certain than the rest of the assembly. As ever, they look to Thor for guidance: If he decides to hate Loki, his friends will be quick to follow, despite the many years they’ve fought at Loki’s side. He knows they’ve never held any great love for Loki, and would never side against Thor for Loki’s sake.

But if he tries to save Loki, to fight his way out, they’ll be at his side in moments; just as loyal, even knowing that the effort is doomed. Would he trade their lives for Loki’s?

All around them, the murderous looks of the crowd proclaim that Loki will never leave the room alive. If Thor tries to fight his way out, he’ll need to use killing strength, or risk Loki getting ripped apart before they can flee. He can’t fly out, or bash his way through a wall, not without Mjolnir.

And Mjolnir sits at the foot of Odin’s throne, no longer Thor’s to command.

The words still ring in Thor’s ears, the Allfather’s decree:

_Prove your loyalty to Asgard, my son. Prove that you will defend the Realm from enemies and monsters, that you value your responsibilities above even your own feelings_.

_Kill the Jotun runt and take your rightful place on this throne_.

He didn’t even soften the blow; why would he? Jotnar deserve no such consideration. How many times have Thor and his friends laughed at the thought of taking down a frost giant? Sif showing off how she’d skewer the beast through its belly; Volstagg planting his feet and lifting Fandral high enough to stab it in the eye. Hogun taking the more sensible route of slicing at its tendons, bringing it down to their level so that Thor could lop off its foul head.

Even Loki, though generally less bloodthirsty, occasionally joined in on the boasting, dreaming up unexpected tactics to slaughter whole groups of the creatures without even using his seidhr.

Given time, the boasts would surely have turned to deeds. Thor’s little gang—never one to stick too closely to the rules, or care overmuch about prohibitions—would have gone behind the Allfather’s back to visit Jotunheim and bag themselves a giant. If anything held them back, it was the lack of glory: What was the point if they couldn’t openly brag about it?

And now there’s a frost giant kneeling there, ready for the kill.

Thor looks at the prisoner and tries to see anything other than his brother. To see a monster, a beast, rightfully bound before the throne.

A thousand years and more, this… creature has thought itself to be Aesir. A prince of Asgard. Thor’s brother. It’s all been lies, and now it’s obvious why Loki—why the _Jotun runt_ could never measure up to his—_its_—peers.

Smaller, weaker, less durable than the others who’ve grown up alongside them; even Fandral weighs more, is more filled out. And maybe a frost giant could have raised arms with the rest of them, but this runt was slow and awkward any time he had to train with sword or axe or hammer, any time he tried a _real_ weapon. He’d resorted to the daggers after failing at everything else.

Clever, yes—or _cunning_, as the Aesir said of enemies and beasts. Sly, deceptive, manipulative, given to tricks and pranks that would never occur to a true son of Asgard; even in battle, Loki resorted to deception, to _illusions_, rather than the straightforward combat techniques they’d all been raised on.

(Did it matter that Loki’s tricks had saved their lives on dozens of occasions?)

Perceptive, insightful—but that could just as well be the keen senses of a predator. Loki has ever been at odds with the rest of them, his perspective so different from theirs, and Thor had never really thought to question the cause of that distinction.

Thor’s gaze drifts down along the pool of Loki’s ceremonial robes, the black and green with accents of silver—such a contrast to Asgard’s royal red and gold, as Thor himself and Odin both wear. Should that have been a clue, all this time, of how he didn’t fit in?

(In Thor’s sight, the golden banners that hang along the walls look tarnished, covered in mud.)

Were it not for the muzzle, Loki might try to talk his way out of this—desperately profess his allegiance to the Realm, appeal to their sense of justice or mercy, make use of his charm, his wit, his skill with words. But Odin has robbed him of all that, keeping him silent and passive as the events unfold around him.

Because, of course, Loki’s strengths lie in wordplay. Wordplay, and deception, and the shameful womanly art of seidhr.

Never mind that Odin himself has mastered his seidhr; that’s to be expected of the Allfather. Never mind that Loki was taught the art by their moth—by _Frigga_, Thor’s mother, and does she even know—she’d have to know Loki’s true nature, right?

Where _is_ Frigga? Why isn’t she here to put a stop to this? Surely she doesn’t agree with… surely she wouldn’t…

…but even Loki must have concluded that if he truly is Jotun, he deserves no better than this; no Jotun could possibly merit the thousand years of relative happiness he’s known among them, innocently believing himself to be Aesir. Shock and horror are writ large across his face, yet not betrayal—even now, trembling in his shackles, he doesn’t even seem to be fighting this fate. As Odin said, maybe he should never have been allowed to live.

Maybe letting him die would be a mercy, compared to letting him live with a truth this abhorrent.

But Loki’s tears, cascading down faster than they can freeze, have roused all of Thor’s protective instincts. Thor wants nothing so much as to snatch up his brother and hurl Mjolnir into the sky, burst through the ceiling and fly away to the Bifrost, to send Loki somewhere safe.

But where would they even go? Not Jotunheim. He’d never consign Loki to so wretched a fate. Asgard can never be home to him again, unless, perhaps, as a grave. And the allies of Asgard—Vanaheim, Alfheim, Nidavellir—would hardly offer them sanctuary; their nobles are among the faces calling for Loki’s destruction.

Not that any of that matters, if they wouldn’t leave the room alive.

Glancing behind him, Thor looks at the throne—not at Odin, who has returned to his seat, but at the physical structure from which the Allfather rules. The steps that put him above the rest of the court, clearly demonstrating that while others may have opinions, the Allfather alone holds all the power.

Thor has always solved his problems through show of force, and the Norns have frequently favored him with victory. But force is clearly not an option this time. And if he simply refuses to obey… well, Odin has ever been inflexible in any matter that might challenge his authority. Thor can’t imagine that Odin would simply let them leave, not after this much spectacle; there is no contesting the Allfather’s will. One blast from Gungnir and the matter would be decided.

If Thor does not kill Loki, then Loki will die anyway. Or worse. Unless Odin relents.

_Don’t worry, brother. You’ll always be safe if you stick with me_.

The muttering of the crowd has turned to taunts, almost a chant: _Monster! Trickster! Baby-eater! Ice-heart! Coward! Ergi!_ The common insults against Jotnar, mingled with those that Loki has borne throughout his life and never deserved.

To his shame, Thor recalls mocking Loki that way as well, now and then, never in malice, but… he’s never thought too much of it until today. He’s never stopped to see the blows from Loki’s point of view.

Loki, who hangs limply between the guards, his face a mask of devastation. Thor looks away again, scans the crowd as if to find someone, anyone, who might be able to stop this. But the only ones not hurling abuse are his friends, and Odin, who silently watches him from the throne, hawk-like. He’s used to Thor’s love of spectacle, and is likely allowing some time for him to adjust to the shock.

And then there is Tyr, the impartial judge of these proceedings, watching him just as silently. Waiting, like the Norns, to see what Thor will do. If Thor does not kill Loki, then the duty will likely fall on Tyr, on Odin’s orders and probably with some deliberate cruelty just to make a point.

Heroes kill monsters; it’s a truth that Thor was raised on, the core of so many of his adventures. Never before has he stopped to consider the monster’s side of things; even little children know that giants and dragons and trolls are inherently evil, and that a happy ending means the monster is dead.

Monsters don’t get happy endings.

But monsters never crawled into Thor’s bed in the middle of the night, never let Thor wipe away their tears; they’d never fallen asleep in his arms after he’d soothed their terror with reassurance.

_I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!_

_You’d really do that for me, Thor?_

_Of course! You’ll always be safe if you stick with me_.

How can he go back on that now?

Torn by indecision, Thor clenches the hilt of the dagger convulsively, wishing for a different weapon to be in his hands. For all the good it would do.

How can Odin ask this of him? To make Thor a kinslayer?

But then, they’re not really kin, are they? They were raised by the same parents, but they don’t share blood.

What would Frigga think of this? Does she know? Does she consider Loki her son?

If not, she’s done a masterful job of hiding it, all these years.

A sense memory hits him: sitting in the grass of Mother’s garden, the cold night air lit only by the stars above them. The silhouettes against the night sky, Mother murmuring instructions to Loki until suddenly a light bloomed between them, a glowing orb floating above Loki’s hand, his surprised and delighted face briefly lit up before he raised his hand and let the light float out over the water until it winked out again.

Loki’s dismay soothed away by her assurances: _That’s normal; you’ll get better with time. Give it time, my dear one._

They’re out of time.

If he were king, he could stop this.

But if he were king, it would already be too late. Maybe this is just… fate.

_From the moment you were born, the entire kingdom has known your destiny: You were always meant to be king_.

The moment of ‘true choice’, Loki had said, and the Norns are watching… but Thor’s options have narrowed to an agonizing few. Some lead to the throne, some to his own banishment, maybe worse. And Odin has laid out all the steps, all but inescapable.

If Thor did raise his hand against Loki, if he had to live with that knowledge of himself, would he go mad? If he refused, would they both be killed, right here before the throne?

Even if they _could_ get away, would the Norns strike him down for daring to break the oaths he made not even an hour ago—for putting Loki above the good of the Realm? And then who would dare to stand up for the Jotun outcast? Without Thor at his side, even Loki’s best efforts could hardly protect him for long… and Thor could well imagine him taking his own life, rather than live with the knowledge of his monstrous nature and the loss of all he’s ever known.

All the paths that Thor can see lead inexorably to his brother’s death, and some deaths far more terrible than others.

At least if his hand is the one that wields the blade, he can cut short the suffering. Let the last hands that touch his brother be ones that have loved him.

He just has to… _has to_ raise that blade, and do the unthinkable.

With slow steps, he approaches his brother, knowing what he must do. Hearing the crowd chant for Loki’s demise: _slay the beast, kill the monster, destroy the serpent hidden in the heart of the palace_.

He can’t meet Loki’s eyes.

He’s been born for this moment, and in this moment he wishes, with piercing sincerity, to have never been born at all. Not for this.

_Before these witnesses and before the Norns_—

What were the Norns thinking, setting up a choice like this?

Through this moment—if he _survives_ this moment—lies the throne and the crown, the transition from immature Prince to unquestionable King, the position and power of the Allfather. Like his father before him, he’ll maintain the stability of the Realm through his very presence, another link in the line of Odin: Buri and Bor, Odin and Thor, and Thor’s son after him, and then his son’s son in turn. Since childhood, his life has been mapped out for him.

_Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to uphold the good of the Realms?_

The crown is not the great prize he once thought it was, but a burden that few could bear, and only a fool would wish for. Shackles, not freedom.

_Do you swear to preserve the peace, no matter the cost to yourself?_

Asgard has never been at peace with the Jotnar, not _true_ peace. And never will, unless Thor could somehow find a way to change that from the throne.

But if he slaughters Loki, here and now, then the chance of peace will die with him.

_Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms against all threats, whether from without or within?_

Loki’s never been a threat. Not to Asgard. If not for Loki, Thor wouldn’t even be here.

_Pass this one last test, my son, and take your rightful place_—

If he could see any way—any way at all—to save his brother, then he would take it. Surrender everything else: his crown, his throne, his future. It’s all dross, meaningless. The advantages he’s been born to, the wife they’ve already set aside for him, the children that might have been raised alongside Volstagg’s, trained to defend the Realm; none of it matters, if this is the price.

But he can’t _fight_

can’t _run_

can’t get the crowd on his side—not that it would matter if he did.

And with the Allfather’s decree laid down, there’s no chance of persuading him that sparing Loki is the better move. Odin doesn’t retreat, and the words he’s said in public are as inviolable as any vow. Always have been.

Looking down at Loki’s silent, shaking form, Thor imagines cutting his throat, the blood welling through the skin. He looks down at his hand, at the thin, almost invisible line of scar tissue, remembers the blood welling from the cut as Tyr raked him over the coals for playing around with blood oaths to the Norns.

Tyr, judge and executioner and huntmaster, has long been the symbol of justice in Asgard, his missing hand a testament to everything he’s sacrificed in the name of honor.

It had taken Sif to point out that according to the legend, Tyr lost his hand as a consequence of going back on his word while tricking the dread wolf Fenrir to its doom. One of the great warriors of Asgard, resorting to guile and deceit, out of the kingdom’s fear of a monster? And then, instead of a clean kill, to bind and torture the beast?

In her mind, it was the Norns themselves who had maimed the so-called God of Justice.

Thor recalls her words during a lakeside camping trip: “If Fenrir does break free during the last days, and helps destroy Asgard, it’ll be our own fault.”

For Sif, there is no glory in trickery; small wonder, then, her long-standing rivalry with Loki. But no matter how badly they’ve treated him over the years, Loki has never broken faith with any of them.

Glancing up at Sif again, Thor notes her expression as subtly different from those around her, the ones twisted in rage, in hate. Perhaps her outrage is directed more at the way Odin has treated Loki, who trusted him.

Suddenly Thor huffs, not quite a laugh.

The crowd stills to hear his reaction.

_They’re waiting to see what happens, as much as we are_.

“I cannot believe,” he begins slowly, still studying the dagger, “that I was taken in by such lies. All these years, all this time together, and I never questioned it… I believed we were _family_. Such comforting lies, but now… now that my eyes have been opened, I must adjust myself to the truth, no matter how difficult or monstrous that truth might be.”

His gaze flicks over to Loki, whose deep red eyes are staring at him with so many tangled emotions that Thor has to look away again.

“And though my heart aches within me, it seems clear what needs to be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Fantasy racism (and I'm laying it on _thick_), bundled with a bit of good ol' Asgardian sexism.
> 
> Hopelessness, inevitability. Discussion of mercy kills, mild mention of suicide.
> 
> Boasts about killing a frost giant, which includes mildly graphic specifics about how they'd do it: stab it in the belly, in the eye, slice its tendons, cut off its head. Mention of blood, of losing a hand.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I'm still hoping to get the next chapter of _Unseen Things_ up before the night is out, but more than likely it'll be tomorrow (at least) before anyone sees it. Best laid plans of mice and men, and all that. Still, I got a good ways into it and will be working more on it this afternoon and this evening.
> 
> Another thing I wanted to get up in time for Halloween, but will be posting a bit late: A pic of Loki in costume (with Thor as a component). We'll see if I can put that together in early November. Hey, if people can be putting up Christmas decorations before Halloween, I can post Halloween stuff up through at least Thanksgiving, right?


	3. O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other versions of this tale have Thor kill Loki, or get them both killed, or run off through show of arms. Might this Thor weave a different tale?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaarrrgh, this chapter. Have you ever felt like you're assembling a jigsaw puzzle with some of the pieces upside-down and others glued together the wrong way? Even now, it doesn't really feel like I've massaged it as much as I'd like to; I'd like to add in Odin's reactions more, and more back-and-forth between Sif and Tyr, but... I'm out of time, and dang it, this is good enough.
> 
> Lay your bets now: What's Thor's plan in all of this?
> 
> P.S. I don't have time right now to chase down the names of my beta readers, but I had substantial help with this piece when I first put it together, and I did want to thank them. If I get a chance to breathe, here, I'll see about figuring out who to thank.
> 
> Content Warnings in End Note, as usual! Sensitive readers, please take care.

The yellow firelight flickers unsteadily across the ceremonial dagger in Thor’s hands, as if calling attention to all it signifies. All that Odin requires of him.

He could hurl it away, but that would merely declare his allegiance; it would do nothing to save his brother. He could throw it straight at Odin, but that, too, would be futile; even were it balanced for throwing, even were he trained to make use of such a thing, it would never get past the defenses of the Allfather’s throne.

Thor knows he has a reputation for being quick to act and slow to think things through, but he’s not _stupid_; he just doesn’t often see the need to hesitate.

Most of the time, the stakes aren’t nearly so high.

_Some pivotal decision lies before you_, Loki had said. _Without this awareness, you might make a decision too hastily, without considering all the factors at play. You can’t solve every problem by hitting it with a hammer._

No. Not a hammer. And where he tends to just swing Mjolnir around and expect his enemies to fall before him, this time he’ll have to take Loki’s tactic, and strike directly at the weakest point.

Casting his gaze skyward, he looks, perhaps for the last time, at the mural that depicts the royal family. Or, at least, the illusion of a family, for whatever reasons Odin had seen fit to commission the lie. _(Loki, it seems, is not the only one to use deception, when it suits him.)_

Again, Thor is struck by the absence of Frigga, on today of all days. Surely it’s by design: Just as Odin had the foresight to bind Loki before revealing his plans, perhaps he ensured that Frigga would not be around to confront him, to defy him.

Odin does not brook defiance. Not even from his own family.

_(There are rumors that he killed his own father in order to claim the throne. None repeat them when they know Thor is listening, but he has heard them nonetheless.)_

Publicly, Frigga has never defied him, but for this… Thor cannot imagine that she would simply stand aside and let him execute her favored son.

And Loki _is_ her favorite, has been for as long as Thor can recall; no one else in Asgard has ever esteemed Loki over Thor, but their mother does. Or seemed to. And yet she _must_ have known Loki’s true nature, which means she’d kept the lie for a thousand years. It beggars belief.

Still… could she have kept the lie as _Odin_ has, raising Loki merely as a sacrifice?

Being a good judge of character has never been among Thor’s skills; he’s never needed to do more than determine friend or foe, and the foes are usually obvious. But he cannot believe that Frigga would treat Loki so, that she would be party to this deed.

His gaze brushes the ceiling again: Thor and Odin in red. Loki and Frigga in green.

He makes up his mind: Unless and until Frigga gives him reason to think she’s a monster, he will trust that her love for both of them is true. _(But until he has some believable explanation, he will not leave Loki alone with her.)_

When the muttering of the crowd picks up again, growing in pitch and fervor, Thor silences them with a look; the sternness of his countenance must be frightening indeed. From their expressions, a good many of them think his ire to be aimed at Loki, think that he’s about to harm the unfavored son of Asgard—and they _like_ it. They’re here for a show, now. He has to push back the part of him that wants to strike that cruel anticipation off their faces.

Oh, he’ll give them a show.

“I grew up believing that Loki was my brother,” he muses, slowly. “We both thought that he was Aesir; why should we not? And yet he often sought my counsel, wondering why he could never seem to measure up to the rest of us, why he so often fell short of his peers.

“I guess that’s clear, now,” he adds, with a brief glance at the throne.

“A thousand years, and I never questioned it.” He grins, suddenly, and his voice booms out across the room. “After all, we all know what the frost giants are like! Were you not raised on the same stories, Sif?”

He shoots her a look, and gets a cautious, baffled frown in return.

“Huge, fearsome monsters,” he continues. “Nothing like my brother, who has always been small and weak… _pitiful_, really. Why, it took him _months_ to be able to handle a wooden practice sword! My first day in the training ring, I could lift a battleaxe—not that the Weaponmaster let me lift it for long!”

Tyr’s stony face betrays no reaction to the memory, but a few chuckles from the crowd put Thor a little more sure of his stride.

“And what weapon has he chosen, this mighty warrior of Asgard?” Thor asks, gesturing at his brother offhandedly. “A sword, a spear, a war hammer?” He laughs, and more laughs rise with his; any familiar with the court would know Loki’s preferences. “Behold, the only warrior in all the Realm who throws little _knives_ around!”

“And takes down prey more skillfully than your hammer can!” Sif shouts. “At least we have meat and a pelt left, instead of a bloody _mess!_ ”

“Ah, yes,” Thor says. “And is that not another trait of the frost giants? Vicious, bloody predators. Prone to snatching up little babes and devouring them whole! How gruesome the tales we grew up on.” He huffs. “Perhaps I should have guessed Loki’s nature when he would push aside roasted boar to eat up fish and vegetables. Or when he shied from battles! How often have we mocked him, Fandral? Always the voice of caution, so concerned with our safety!”

“Aye, and we’d all be dead now, were it not for him!” Sif shouts, as the Warriors Three exchange glances.

“Oh, a hundred times over!” Thor agrees with a grin. “The many times I’ve rushed into battle, caring nothing for the risk, and it was only Loki’s tricks that spared us a grisly end. _Tricks!_ He’d hide me from plain sight, conjure up a fog, make it look like we had dozens of warriors at our backs; he’d ferret out the weaknesses of our foes and turn their own weapons against them.

“No warrior of Asgard was ever so _crafty_,” he says, toying with the blade in his hand. “But of course, he’s not of Asgard, and doubtless he would have turned such tricks against me, given time. How hard it must have been for him to stay his hand, when I so readily left myself at his mercy! Had he but stepped aside and let me fall, he would have been heir, and not a soul to suspect him. Yet each time, he protected me—and suffered our mockery yet again.

“But perhaps he was too much of a coward.” Thor’s voice turns scornful. “I have never seen a son of Asgard worry so! Concerned that we had not brought enough supplies, that we would not be back in time for our duties, that perhaps _this_ enemy was too great for our skills. Yet fearful or not, he came with us wherever I bid. Where I rushed in, he followed.”

“What courage is it to know no fear?” Sif demands.

“Silence!” Tyr returns, finally fed up with her outbursts. The Einherjar turn toward her, ready to oust her from the throne room at the Weaponmaster’s signal.

“No, she’s right,” Thor says thoughtfully, tapping the tip of the dagger against his chin. “That _is_ the difference between Loki and me… or, well, one of them. A man who is fearless—reckless—is certainly no coward, but it cannot be said that he is _brave_. Is it courage to stick your hand into a viper’s nest if you believe the viper to be gone, or yourself immune to the venom?

“No, courage is the act of _overcoming_ fear. Why, by that measure, my own is laughable! But Loki, who knew the risks better than any of us, came anyway.

“Then again, perhaps that’s mere stupidity. Are they not brutish beasts, these frost giants, easily befuddled, easily fooled? We used to trade tales of how we would trick the poor, dumb creatures. And Loki’s plans put ours to shame; how odd that he would turn on his own people so readily. A frost giant at heart, dreaming up plans to take down the might of Jotunheim.”

“He never _knew!_ ” Sif all but screams, and the Einherjar are upon her, two of them lifting her bodily from her seat and slamming her against the wall, one gauntleted hand over her mouth that she might not further disrupt the proceedings. They look to Tyr to see whether they should go further, escort her from the room, but he shakes his head; it is enough that she is silent.

Thor tamps down the fury rising in his heart at seeing Sif mistreated simply for speaking the truth; his anger will not help her, not in this.

“I suppose he didn’t know,” he agrees, turning away from her. “While we considered how to down a single giant, he’d dream up elaborate plans to take down whole clans! That is,” he adds, chuckling, “when we could drag him out of the library, of course.” He wrinkles his nose. “Always studying, that boy, while my friends and I were in the ring, training for war. Small wonder it took him so many centuries to master a weapon. If we had not compelled him, now and then, to come with us, doubtless he would have remained with his nose in his books until Ragnarok!

“And what _has_ he been studying, these thousand years?” Thor spreads his arms wide. “We’ve all seen the results: No man in all Asgard has harnessed the power of seidhr as Loki has. Well,” he allows, “no man aside from Odin Allfather, of course. But the rest of us are too busy learning battlecraft to devote any time to, as the Allfather says, a _womanly_ art.”

Turning back toward his brother, Thor takes in the blue skin, the markings. The red eyes narrowed, watching Thor, as if trying to figure him out. There’s hurt there, and confusion, and betrayal, but also something that Thor hopes is a sign his brother hasn’t lost faith in him entirely. If he can only hold on a little longer.

“Loki knew full well that his talents in combat were laughable,” Thor says, “and so he made up the difference with tricks; it was the one talent by which he might defend the Realm. Though by now he has mastered both seidhr _and_ combat; indeed, he may be the deadliest warrior I know. Small wonder that even the mighty Allfather fears his power, and must bind it so.”

He looks down at the dagger in his hand again, and swallows. His words are running out; Odin’s patience will not last forever, and Thor cannot hope to sway the crowd so much as to destabilize it, leave them doubtful of their conclusions.

Whether that will do any good for him, or for Loki, it is a final thing that he can do for the Realm. If this is all he has the chance to do, it must be enough. He has never been a fine talker, but he can push back against the lies of the deceiver, remind the people of the call of justice, and reduce that mob fever among them that might well lead to another war against a land already crippled by the hand of Odin the Destroyer.

The cost to himself is immaterial. Truly, Thor cannot say what might be the end of it, when he makes this final move: One way or the other, the choice remains in Odin’s hands, but one does not defy the Allfather and simply walk away.

A gruesome sight floods his mind, one he’s seen but twice in his long life: In Odin’s private chambers, a pedestal holding the half-living head of Mimir, which whispers advice from the sage’s great stores of knowledge and wisdom. Before Thor had even been born, Mimir had died in battle, and yet Odin denies him Valhalla, pleased to bind him to the mortal plane so long as Odin has a use for him.

Thor’s head is unlikely to join Mimir’s; there’s little there to be worth keeping. Had he a gift of mind or speech or sight, perhaps…

Like Heimdall, whose unique gift of sight allows him to guard the Realm from all that might threaten it, spending his life in eternal vigilance. Surely he is aware of the night’s events. Does he approve of Odin’s plan? The gatekeeper does what is best for Asgard, but surely… surely not _this_.

Again, Thor sees himself breaking Loki free, running them both across the rainbow bridge to the Bifrost, in hope of safety on another Realm. Would Heimdall stand in their way, upholding the Allfather’s wishes? Or might he have the portal waiting for them, to spirit them away before the Einherjar caught up to them?

Would he accept Odin’s wrath upon him, for acting against him? Odin could not execute him, but Heimdall could well share the same fate as Mimir, his head on a pedestal, reduced to his basic function: the eternal watchman, and nothing more, not ever again.

Thor shudders. If anyone notices, they probably think it’s for another reason entirely.

“‘Nothing your father does is ever without a purpose,’” he muses aloud, echoing his mother. “I always believed—I _knew_—that my father was the best father, the wisest king; I knew he always had a plan in mind. When Loki doubted his worth in Odin’s eyes, I comforted him with that notion. I hoped, someday, that I could be as great as my father, but Loki… he never held any illusions of that, and hoped only to win his approval.”

Once again, he centers his gaze on his brother, and narrows his eyes. “We were told so many tales of the frost giants,” he says. “How savage they were, how deceitful. Bent on conquest, and incapable of courage or compassion. The worst monsters in all the Nine Realms.”

The murmurs of the crowd rise again, but Thor tunes them out, finding himself transfixed by memories of Loki, small and vulnerable and not yet hardened against attacks either physical or verbal. Their shared childhood, and the lies it was built upon that have only just come to light.

“The frost giants’ cruelty horrified my brother,” he says, wondering if anyone in the court will ever again see Loki as Thor does. Perhaps it does not matter. “Many nights he would seek my reassurance that they couldn’t hurt him—not here in Asgard. That the guards would keep the giants out; that our parents would protect him, _I_ would protect him from the monsters that haunted his dreams. That I would slay any number of Jotnar to keep him safe.

“But now, it seems that the one frost giant that threatens him the most… is inseparable from the Loki that I knew. I cannot slay one and save the other; either both must live, or both die.”

Solemnly, Thor steps up in front of Loki, looking down at his trembling form. Still gagged, still held by the guards, Loki can do nothing but shake his head helplessly, tears cascading down his face and quickly turning to ice.

"And of course, being a Jotun, he is not to be trusted; betrayal is simply part of his nature."

When Thor raises the dagger, the shouts grow louder; Loki’s eyes widen, and then, as Thor takes one slow step closer, Loki’s face crumples and he drops his head, hanging limply from the grip of his captors, shudders running through his body.

"But it is not part of mine," Thor says. “Our fates are woven by the Sisters—who favor the daring, and there is always an element of choice. So… may the Norns be watching.”

Loki stiffens, and looks up just as Thor pulls the blade across his own palm, rich red blood starting to drip down his arm. The room has fallen utterly silent; one does not invoke the Norns lightly, and almost _never_ by name.

And few of them might recognize the invocation of the blood oath, but Loki and Odin would be among those few. After all, Loki was the one who taught him.

“**_I swear before the Norns_**,” Thor calls out—loud enough that no ear in the entire room could fail to hear him—“that I will never take a wife, or sire an heir, unless Loki is allowed to leave this room alive and free, this very hour, with his magic returned to him. If he is harmed, or not released, then the line of Odin will die with me.”

Turning, he gazes serenely into the face of Odin, who is on his feet now, untempered rage threatening to boil over. “Before Urdhr and Verdhandi and Skuld,” Thor concludes, “**_I swear it_**.”

Odin’s mouth moves, but he can’t seem to decide on words; a few garbled growls are all that he manages as his face grows ever more red.

Red like the blood pooling at Thor’s feet.

Thor raises his chin. “I grew up believing that the frost giants were monsters and enemies of Asgard,” he repeats calmly. “And yet I find that for all their supposed savagery, they are nowhere near as cold or cruel or heartless as the man I once called ‘father.’”

The man who could kill him where he stands. Or steal his powers away, and cast him to the farthest reaches of Niflheim, among the rotting corpses of the dead. Thor can’t bring himself to care; he drops the dagger and turns his back on Odin. Kneels in his own blood, face to face with an incredulous Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings:** Ooh, this is gonna be a rough ride. And it's mostly just a long-winded speech! Let's see...
> 
> Like the whole fic, this chapter is not flattering to Odin or to Asgardian culture as a whole, especially in what they think of the frost giants. And Thor mocks Loki a lot here -- but that's just the surface layer of what's going on, so try to look deeper.
> 
> Sif gets manhandled by the guards, including a hand over her mouth. There's also blood in this chapter, and an instance of self-harm.
> 
> Perhaps most creepily, there's a mention of Mimir, the talking head on a pedestal, and it's played up pretty gruesome: the concept of being turned into a living artifact.
> 
> By the by, I'm gonna count this a fill for [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated)'s "Ritual Sacrifice / Take Me Instead" (Prompt #9), but I'm not gonna add it to the Whumptober set because this was always how this chapter was supposed to play out, and the "take me instead" part is not so straightforward. Still, this should put me up to a full 100% completion of all 31 main Whumptober prompts this year, and with the various Alts I've used it covers any slack, so: Last-Minute Whumptober was a success! (Guess I can stop pulling my hair out, now.)
> 
> Incidentally, since I'm constructing this around the Alchemical Journey (the four-step version), this is the Citrinitas (the yellowing), as moon changes to sun (Thor coming into his own, opposing or replacing Odin's dark version). Sif and Tyr are my best try at the Quarreling Couple (mercury and sulfur), which I don't feel I did all that well (but it was constrained by the circumstances and the cast). And the concept of Heimdall's head getting cut off by Odin, and Frigga being tricked away or imprisoned, work into the [Peacock's Tail](https://brewingphilosopherstone.weebly.com/lesson-4.html) (the many-eyed watchman of Hera being killed by Zeus so he could do things she wouldn't find out about).


End file.
